


Yours,

by sweettasteofbitter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Love Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweettasteofbitter/pseuds/sweettasteofbitter
Summary: The Inquisitor gifts Josephine a book full of love letters that intrigue her for multiple reasons.





	Yours,

**Author's Note:**

> Some experimental style choices in this one.
> 
> (*shoehorns bi!Yves Montilyet into fic*)

With an exhausted exhale Josephine takes off her shoes and sinks back into the large, comfortable chair in front of the large crackling fire. She doesn’t often find herself with little to do during the evenings – it is the exception rather than the rule, and so she intends to enjoy this rare solitary moment.

Josephine’s door has been locked, only to be opened in case of emergency. Tonight, the Inquisitor being on the road is a blessing rather than a burden. Josephine covers her legs with the fur blanket she keeps in her room for this purpose, and reaches out for the book on the small table next to her; this book, right here, is a gift from the Inquisitor herself.

(

“Here, I thought you might like this.” _Words spoken sheepishly._ “It’s a collection of letters written exclusively between female lovers. Even though I’m fairly sure they’re fictive, their stories felt real enough to me; they made me share in their passion, their happiness, and in some cases, their secrecy.”

“I’m surprised their secrecy would appeal to you.”

_A gentle hand against Josephine’s cheek._

“Why, is it that strange? Haven’t all people like us struggled with this?”

(At fourteen, the thumping inside Josephine’s chest at the sight of the oldest Carvalho daughter, mixed together with the anxiety of fancying a girl, and, later, the struggle of not being able to choose between men and women, then finally, the realization that she didn’t _have_ to. The relief when she found the courage to confide in her parents and was accepted without hesitation – the surprise, then, when her father took her aside and told her that she wasn’t alone, squeezing her shoulders a little too hard as he told her, in hushed tones, that he had taken male _and_ female lovers in the past.)

“I suppose we have,” Josephine admits.

_A knowing smile accompanied with a quick double tap on the cover of the book, already pushed into Josephine’s hands._

“One more thing: please don’t read this in public. Most of the letters are pretty tame, but there are some of them that do feature explicit language, and I wouldn’t want the respectable Ambassador to get caught consuming such content.”

 _The Inquisitor’s laugh. The dimples in her cheeks, the glimmer in her eyes._ _Sweet Andraste_ , her laugh.

)

Josephine rubs the palm of her hand across the rose craftily cut out of the leather cover before opening the book, careful not to crack its spine. The first few pages are enough to declare her smitten: they contain letters written by a woman and the farmer’s daughter she taught to read and write in the first place. Josephine experiences them slowly falling in love through their written words, and it leaves a fuzzy, warm feeling of recognition inside her chest.

_I owe to you many things: to be able to write these words is one of those things, and to have a  chance at love is another._

Their initial confession is so fraught, the building up to it such a journey that when it finally happens, Josephine covers her mouth with her hand, and feels tears of vicarious tenderness in her eyes.The narrative ends, the promise of hope filling her with the need to read on, and so she does. These are lives intertwined, most of them with happy – or at least, hopeful - endings, of women like her; Josephine reads their stories, of women young and old, of all walks of life, falling in love and _falling_ – and then standing up again, together, against all odds.

She is especially charmed by the letters of a scarred, elderly Tal-Vashoth couple full of worry and tenderness for one another as one of them travels to her home country of Orlais to meet up with an old friend.

_Friendship, among other things, is one of the most wonderful gifts this world has given us, and you deserve all the happiness in the world. Yet I cannot help but feel selfish about wanting you near again._

_Soon, soon, my love, we will be together once more. Until then, I wish you all the best. May you enjoy your time abroad!_

Josephine smiles at the comfort and frankness they share with one another, and she briefly wishes for her communication with the Inquisitor to become like this, eventually, in the years to come. It’s refreshing to read stories such as these, and she is very grateful to the Inquisitor for gifting her this book. Apart from taking a quick break to pour herself a glass of wine, Josephine is unable to put it down.

She reads about the wife of an Antivan merchant prince, who, despite loving her husband very much, falls for a much younger woman, and, with the consenting knowledge of the man she is married to, maintains her relationship with her lover for over a decade. The letters are written with the flourish of someone with years of privileged education, and prose that makes Josephine clutch the book a little tighter.

_Remember when you were lying in the field, insect life buzzing around us as I put flowers on your chest, and you cradled my head as I took you to a different place with my mouth? Do you remember?_

_(Oh darling,_ her lover writes in return _, how could I forget?)_

It’s sweet and just titillating enough that it makes Josephine shift in her seat. She becomes aware of how flushed her cheeks are, and quickly reads on. (She has skipped some of the more explicit letters that go on for paragraphs on end. She will save those for…occasions.)

She is so enamored with the Antivan story that she re-reads it a number of times, and vaguely recalls hearing a story like this from local gossips all the way back in Antiva. Suddenly she isn’t so sure about the Inquisitor’s suspicion that these letters weren’t written by real people. Authors are capable of many things, but just how would they be capable of conveying these emotions, so heartfelt, so _true_? It’s in that moment that Josephine decides for herself that these letters are real. She needs them to be.

She sits there until the fire has been reduced to a few glowing embers, and once she has finished the last batch of published letters, she holds still for a moment and sighs. She intends to close the book,  but she notices something sliding out of the cover. Mortified by the idea that she has somehow ruined the book despite her carefulness, she looks at the pages, and realizes her anxiety was for naught; the sheets were never part of the book, and the Inquisitor’s handwriting greets her.

_My dearest Josephine,_

_I hope you enjoyed this book. It is very dear to my heart and it is a joy to be able to share it with you. I hope there is a possibility we could discuss it in more detail if you are comfortable with that. I would love to hear from you soon!_

_Yours,_

_The Inquisitor_

It is a short letter, so it makes no sense that there is a second, empty sheet of parchment obscured behind it. Josephine examines it, holds it against the light, trying to figure out if there is a hidden message of some sort, but to no avail: the surface remains empty. She ponders the sheet for a minute or so, until it hits her what it is supposed to be used for.

Josephine, carrying the Inquisitor’s letter and the empty parchment in one hand and a candelabra in the other, gets up from her seat and walks over to her desk. She tucks one leg underneath her, re-reads the letter once more with a subtle smile on her face.

Josephine stretches the parchment before her, tucks an unruly strand of hair behind her ear and dips her pen into her inkwell.


End file.
